


Masterpiece

by Space_Samurai



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, No Sex, Objectification, Obsession, Suggestive Themes, The Empire wins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Samurai/pseuds/Space_Samurai
Summary: She is a fine addition to his collection. Much like with the rest of his beloved pieces, he takes good care of her, shows her off with pride and of course, he doesn’t let anyone touch her.Though he does not always show much restraint himself.
Relationships: Hera Syndulla/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67





	Masterpiece

Hera has never been forced to wear clothes she didn’t like. Even as a child, when important people came to her family’s home, her mother only asked her to keep her head covered. She could wear the filthy dresses she had worn all day while playing outside, or mismatching fabrics she liked because of their softness.

She wasn’t sure of what she had expected when the Admiral told her to get rid of her greasy clothes and put on something proper.

She had feared, for a second, that she might find herself wearing similar outfits to the ones the women of her species were often forced to wear by slavers. The thought was discarded quickly, the Admiral believed himself a man of good taste and surely, carrying around a half-naked Twi’lek woman was considered poor taste. Even for an imperial.

No, he would much rather present her as a civilized being, a domesticated rebel who had broken under his pressure so he could rebuild her to his desire. Her theory is confirmed when she’s met with a midnight-blue dress, instead of a top and skirt made of sheer material. She puts it on quickly, in fear that he might come in and put it on her if she won’t.

She has worn pretty dresses before, while being undercover, but this one isn’t like those. The skirt is tight around her hips, just enough not to be vulgar, and it cascades down her legs. There are heels near to match the dress and Hera puts them on too. She couldn’t fight nor run in this dress. It’s for the looks and not for convenience.

She guesses it doesn’t matter anymore. She won’t be doing any fighting any soon.

There’s a mirror in the corner of the room, big enough that she can see her whole body. Kanan would say she looks good, despite the dark circles under her eyes and the puffiness of them. Anyone could see she’s been crying, though they won’t care.

She can’t help but notice that her cap doesn’t match the formal clothing.

There’s a polite knock on her door, a feigned courtesy he grants her. Hera says nothing, knowing it’s just a warning, he’ll let himself in as he wishes.

Indeed, he does.

The Admiral has on his formal wear, military regalia on full display. She doesn’t fail to notice that her outfit compliments his. Of course it does.

“The dress suits your coloring.” He praises in that low voice of his. “It seems they’ve forgotten the head wear.” He extends his hand and Hera sees black fabric, with incrusted gems on it. It doesn’t seem like it would cover much of her head, but it looks like she can twist it around her lekku. It hides just enough, and Hera knows it’s been designed by someone who wasn’t a Twi’lek.

She takes it and waits for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He stands before her, firmly, with his arms behind his back.

Through her grief, Hera felt humiliation.

“Turn around,” she asked. Thrawn merely directed a boring look at her, but she knew there was more to it. He was enjoying this. He couldn’t taste her fury, so he’d see her indignation.

“We are already late, my dear.” His silky voice let her know. “You better hurry.”

Hera won’t beg.

She’d feel better if he weren’t standing so close, observing her every movement with the calculating eyes of a strategist. She feels the need to turn around, to shy away from his prying gaze, but she refuses to grant him the satisfaction. So she takes off her goggles and then she pulls the cap down her lekku. She does it neither fast nor slow. Tough shame clogs her throat, she proceeds to swiftly put the band on her head and then wrap it around her lekku.

She looks at him when she’s done, thinking of the very few who had seen her bare head. Kanan, on their bed on the Ghost; Sabine, when they shared the bathroom in the mornings and Ezra, who hadn’t knocked the door and had accidentally seen her. She remembered how embarrassed he had been, more than she was, and he had apologized profusely afterwards.

Thrawn would never apologize for admiring the objects of his collection, and Hera suspects he sees her as one.

-

It’s not often that he finds himself respecting the enemy. Then again, most of the people he fights against are senseless, freedom-loving terrorists who lack any finesse or manners. Captain Syndulla _is_ a freedom-loving rebel, but one well-bred and educated. Despite the grease in her clothes and how she tries to blend with the rest of the rebels, she still carries an air of elegance and poise, which speaks of her origins.

Thrawn has an eye for fine pieces. Hera plays the part of the starving peasant smoothly, well enough to deceive the foolish captain, but not enough to deceive him. He watches the fire dancing in her eyes as he handles her family’s Kalikori, then her fury and hopelessness as he stuns her rebel friend. Later, she’d say that she would rather have it smashed to pieces than in his hands. He promises to take good care of it, like he does with the rest of his collection.

He almost regrets her execution and keeps himself from asking Captain Slavin to bring her along the relic to his ship.

Fortunately –or unfortunately, depending on who you ask- their first encounter is not the last.

She does not become a priority of his until it’s required. He focuses on finding the rebel’s new base, he spends his days inspecting the imperial fabrics, and he hunts for spies: yet he crosses paths with her and her crew more often that he’d like. They are so troublesome for such a small group.

When it becomes evident that the rebels are losing the war, Thrawn allows himself to imagine Hera Syndulla’s fate. She is a well-known rebel, either a public execution or a lifetime in a cell. He believes that she’d rather go down fighting, much like Commander Sato had. She does not. Instead, her friends are the ones go down, while a battalion of Stormtroopers hurry to arrest her.

They had wanted to keep her alive for the time being, to use her as a pawn against her father, but resourceful as she was, they feared she might find a way to escape them. Thrawn, loyal and charitable as he was, had offered to take her off their hands. And thus the woman had found herself in his custody.

He _enjoys_ her.

Having Ezra Bridger under his grasp had been amusing. The young Jedi was idealistic, full of dreams and passionate anger against him. He hadn’t hesitated to scream and struggle when things had gotten hard. Hera Syndulla won’t grant him such pleasure. Like a statue, she stands undisturbed to his thinly veiled taunts. He doesn’t put her on a cell, nor locks her in the space where he keeps his most valuable possessions. He gives her a room adjoined to his, with a door she cannot hack.

She’s wary of him, naturally. As he is wary of her. He both dreads and craves for the night he’ll wake up to her standing by his bed, with a sharp object on hand and determination in her eyes. Oh, how he’ll delight in proving her he’s much stronger than he seems. He’ll slap the weapon away and take her by the wrists, pulling her down with him as he—

“Grand Admiral,” the droid greets him. He has never been one to enjoy parties, but this is one he couldn’t skip. It’s in his honor, after all. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the chance to show her off. Hera Syndulla possesses great beauty, and Thrawn possesses _her_.

All collectors are proud of their pieces, and Thrawn is not an exception.

Few are able to appreciate art as he does, but plenty appreciate Hera Syndulla’s form. She doesn’t like their leering gazes, he can tell. Every time someone’s eyes linger a bit too long on her bosom, her nails dig in his clothed arm. He wonders if she can control such reaction, or if she is aware of it at all.

-

Almost everyone in the party is human. This shouldn’t surprise her, the Empire wasn’t big on other species, as much as they claimed to be looking for peace and equality amongst all.

Thrawn shakes dozens of hands and Hera receives a fair share of kisses in the back of her palm. She keeps herself from wiping it on her dress, as Thrawn wouldn’t consider it polite. She wants to scream at the look on their faces when they learn who she is, why Thrawn has her with him.

She can see how they draw their own conclusions, their eyes running through her body, wondering if the Admiral puts it to good use. She hears the whispers behind them, mostly about her, but some about the Admiral.

 _“So aliens_ are _truly drawn to each other.”_

_“I heard the Admiral keeps her locked in his rooms, chained to his bed.”_

_“She’s a Twi’lek, surely chains aren’t unfamiliar to her.”_

Her blood boils and she digs her nails on his arm as the irritation grows. She would much rather deal with Thrawn comments only, at least he has the guts to say them to her face. Beneath the indignity, a vulnerable part of her fears he might act on the suggestions.

She learns to read him that night. She can tell by the way his red eyes shift if he respects or not the person he’s talking too. She can tell when he wants to throw them off an airlock too. Clearly, he sees himself as the epitome of what an officer should be and looks with disdain at those who dare to thinks themselves his equal, when they clearly aren’t.

A man she does recognize approaches them, Moff Tarkin. His presence is enough to put her on edge, she has known plenty who have fallen victims to him. Much like the Admiral, he carries himself with cold detachment and an air of importance. He is polite enough to acknowledge her, but not mocking enough to kiss her hand or feign pleasantries. Hera appreciates the honesty.

Where powerful men go, power-hungry ones follow. The governor of the province they are currently in and his assistants flock Moff Tarkin, eager to earn his favor. They are only earning his irritation, Hera believes, he barely directs a word to them.

When the introductions are over, it becomes obvious that Moff Tarkin wishes her to away for the next part of the conversation. They mean to talk about imperial business, likely, which a rebel like her has no part hearing. Thrawn is quick to pick up his meaning.

“Go fetch us a drink,” he tells her. Hera stares at him blankly, the idea of disobeying him in front of the colleagues he actually cares about is tempting. His eyes become icy, but Hera doesn’t move.

“Haven’t you heard your Master, girl?” The lesser man asks her. Her stomach turns.

Hera doesn’t want to die, but she’d rather take a bolt to her face than call Thrawn her master. Fortunately and surprisingly, he doesn’t seem fond of the idea either.

“I’m not her master, merely her custodian.” He explains smoothly. _Custodian._ As if she were a child in the need of being watched. “Captain Syndulla is not my slave.” Her heart aches at the sound of her tittle. _I’m a general_ , she’d like to correct him. But she won’t abuse his kindness, he might make her pay for it later.

She goes to the bar, where a droid gives her two bright red drinks. Hera swallows both, letting the heat of the liquid bring warmth to her cold insides. It’s fairly dangerous, as she has never mixed well with alcohol. Twi’lek males were known for their tolerance, females not much. She asked for two more and brought them back to Thrawn.

The night becomes more bearable after drinking. She stops hearing the whispers, or caring about them. There’s a speech at some point, people clap politely and Thrawn acknowledges the honor with a gesture. She begins to feel sleepy by then, unknowingly starting to lean onto him. She is startled only when his fingers brush over the tips of her lekku, like if she were a pet.

“Are you tired?” He asks to her ear. “Should we head back?”

There’s an implication she doesn’t like behind his words and suddenly, she sobers up. She tries to put some distance between them, but the grip in her arm is firm, though not harsh and keeps her still.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she speaks for what feels like the first time in the whole night. Her throat feels dry and she focuses on looking past him.

“It’s no trouble,” he continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “I feel rather tired myself.”

-

The ride on the shuttle is short and silent. The Stormtroopers don’t spare her a glance and Thrawn thanks their services with a curt nod, which is more than he’d grant many. The manor where they are currently staying, where Hera had been dragged to in chains a few days ago, belongs to the governor, who’s politely letting Thrawn borrow it.

Another futile attempt to make his way into the man’s circle, Hera can’t help but notice.

Her head is clear by the time they get to the door, _too_ clear. The numbness is gone, replaced by an uneasy anticipation. For what, she cannot tell. Hera has seen the ships blowing up first handedly, the empty-eyed soldiers who managed to escape his custody, but would never be able to be free of him. The Admiral might carry himself with an undisturbed calmness, but Hera is fully aware that he’s capable of violence.

She wonders just _how_ far his violence goes.

There are guards in the first floor of the manor, though none in the second one, where the rooms are. So if she screams, if she causes a commotion of sorts, no one will come to her aid. She suspects that they wouldn’t come even if they heard her, but she doesn’t linger on the thought.

 _Hope_. She reminds herself. _Have hope._

She will live through this. She had survived the Clone Wars when she was only a child and managed to sleep without nightmares most of the nights, the Admiral wouldn’t break her. No matter what he does to her, Hera promises silently that she’ll escape and continue fighting the Empire.

Her friends might still be alive. Surely, if Thrawn was aware of their demise, he would have informed her of it. With luxury details and graphic reports. They weren’t dead. She had to believe that.

They don’t head for her room, instead they walk to the one adjacent to it. _His_ room.

“I thought you said you were tired,” her voice doesn’t fail her, thankfully. He doesn’t answer until his door is unlocked and open. Hera catches a glimpse of his space, dark-grey walls, a desk, a bed with silky red sheets. Something instinctual, animalistic, urges her to run. But Hera merely follows him inside.

“I wanted to show you something.” When they enter, Hera sees another door. He unlocks it swiftly with a touch to the panel in the wall and they soon find themselves surrounded by history.

She sees the stolen memories from Lothal. Bright oranges and purples swirl together forming splashes of color, Sabine’s walls! Her heart aches painfully. She sees different paintings, more formal ones, small statues and things she can’t even name. Mandalorian armor, a helmet that looks familiar to the one Kanan wore, but definitely isn’t it.

Her family’s Kalikori.

All of it, taken by man who claims to appreciate them. Fury curls within her, and Hera wonders how much of his violence she’d meet if she were to throw it to floor, let it break into a million fragments.

It occurs her that this is what he wanted from the beginning.

“You’ve gone through all this trouble just to show me your collection?” She asks, eyes still glued to Sabine’s walls. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh no, it was for my pleasure only.” Hera turns to look at him. He is a few feet away, staring at her with an expression she can’t decipher. She feels both naked and trapped inside her dress under his gaze. 

She can’t decide if he’s staring at her or the pieces behind her. It’s an appreciating look, though not the leering one she had received plenty of times during the party. Maybe sees her as he sees another of his stolen objects, as another piece to his collection. Another work to keep for his pleasure only, secluded from the world and taken out only to be shown off.

Cold sweat pools in her spine. Thrawn walks towards her.

“Do you like it?” He inquires. “I figured that you’d appreciate it better than the Bridger boy did.” Hera frowned. When had Ezra seen any of this? “He seemed upset that these fine pieces were in my possession, but certainly, you do realize they couldn’t be in better hands, Captain?”

He places a hand in the small of her back, she feels his warmth through the dress. She tried to remember if he had drank enough to get his corporal temperature so high. Hera has to fight the instinct of moving away. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of watching her squirm under his grasp.

“They’d be better in the hands of their actual owners.” She dares to say. “The people they belong to.”

“They belong to the person who’s strong enough to take them.” He responded smoothly. His hand moved up, until it came to rest lightly in the back of her neck. “People with power can take whatever they want and keep others from taking it back.” His fingers toyed with the hem of the dress.

“That still doesn’t make them deserving of them.”

“Does it matter?” Thrawn’s eyes were almost bored.

Of course that it wouldn’t, not to him. “I guess it doesn’t.” Hera swallowed. “But they can still make their way back to their original owners. So I suppose it’s good that they are in your hands then.”

For once, Thrawn seemed interested. “Why is that?”

“Because you’ll take good care of them.” Her voice jumped just the tiniest bit as he drew circles on her shoulder. “You wouldn’t let any harm come to them. Not even by you.”

But wasn’t art meant to be admired and not touched?

His warm hand remained on her.

“No,” he finally said. “Of course not.”

A moment later, they leave his collection behind. He opens Hera’s door and locks it after she’s inside. He does not linger, but that doesn’t put her at ease. She stands still for a very long time before she even allows herself to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> They were talking about art right? 
> 
> I don't even know what this is, I came across Thrawn/Hera by mistake and was intrigued by the posibilities. 
> 
> Let me know if you enjoyed!


End file.
